


To Temper Steel

by NRGburst



Series: To Temper Steel [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya Returns, Canon Compliant, F/M, Feminist Themes, Post-Canon Fix-It, Re-interpreting the legend of Azor Ahai/Lightbringer, Valyrian Steel, Wolf Dreams, blood: tw, trope: epistolary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-03-07 17:36:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18877969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NRGburst/pseuds/NRGburst
Summary: Because only after applying heat can you increase strength and flexibility.





	1. Heat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note that I'm aiming Arya's characterization somewhere between what she was like in Braavos/early S8. I think that time for herself to heal would be necessary for her to come back ready to be in a relationship, so I am taking the finale as a positive step in a Gendrya direction.

 

 

 

“Why haven't you gotten married?"

 

 

Gendry’s so shocked to hear that demanding voice that he turns mid-conversation, stunned.

 

 

It’s really her, although her skin is tan, as if she’s spent long hours under the sun, and her hair is longer than he's ever seen it, tied back neatly with a cord. She’s also wearing strange, outlandish clothing, and the horse she’s riding is unusually heavily laden.

 

 

Jumping straight in with the uncomfortable questions though- that’s obviously the same.

 

 

The gate guards are running behind her, red-faced and shouting, but he waves them back. Like she’d let something as trifling as gate guards stop her.

 

 

“The King said you’d sailed West,” he manages, still bewildered by the sight of her.

 

 

She dismounts smoothly, shaking her head dismissively, obviously irritated that he’d avoided her question. “I did. And I've just got back. Stopped in King's Landing and Bran said you weren’t any closer to married than you were a year ago. I want to know why.”

 

 

Gendry’s mouth works, at a loss for words. As if she could have forgotten.

 

 

And then he remembers that he's a lord now, and not a mere blacksmith, and he doesn’t actually have to answer her. So he takes a couple breaths to try to settle his temper and eyes the darkening sky before he swallows and thinks of the words he’s supposed to use.

 

 

“Arya of House Stark, The Hero of Winterfell, be welcome beneath my roof and at my table. There’s a storm rolling in, so forgive the short courtesy. If you’d like to put your mount in the stable, and refresh yourself, I can join you for the evening meal once I’m done here with my tenants,” he says, gesturing at the couple standing before him.

 

 

She blinks before she inclines her head belatedly. "My apologies for interrupting. Thank you, my lord."

 

 

He beckons to Gavin, one of the stableboys.

 

 

“Run and ask the housekeep to get the guest chamber in the east wing ready for our honored guest."

 

 

And then he turns back to his tenants, heart pounding and half expecting her to make some sassy remark. But all he catches is a bemused smile before she does as bid.

 

 

Always a first time for everything, he supposes.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She’s washed off the road dust and changed into a blouse and trousers when he finds her in the dining room, polishing off some cheese and bread and paging through a book pilfered from the library. “Told you you’d be a good lord. My father always made sure his tenants were second only to his family,” Arya says, and Gendry shrugs uncomfortably, taking the chair across from her.

 

 

“Thanks. Took a while to get used to it. Ser Davos was a big help, but his keep ‘n lands are a lot smaller. Just another nobody in King’s Landing, but here they all knew exactly who I was when I rode up, just from the look of me. It was...bizarre.”

 

 

“Ser Brienne said she mistook you for Renly when she first saw you,” Arya says thoughtfully. “She been down here at all? Tarth is one of your banners, isn't it?”

 

 

Gendry shakes his head. “Her father holds Tarth, and she's actually become a Kingsguard so--" He stops himself. It's far too easy to just slip back into talking with her like they’re friends. “Seriously Arya, why are you here instead of up north with your family? You could have sent a raven. Maester Darren taught me to read and write, and I’m getting faster at both."

 

 

She shrugs, her face carefully impassive. “Can’t play the game of faces unless you're face-to-face. Besides, Bran sent me here. After giving me something to look for first."

 

 

She hefts a medium sized sack onto the table. “Turns out what's West of Westeros is the far east. Brought back sand that smells like blood from the Grey Wastes.”

 

 

He gives her a puzzled look, and she shrugs. “Bran said you’d know what to do with it."

 

 

He raises his eyebrows, baffled. “Well, I'll give it a look, but we've got plenty of sand down the bay."

 

 

When he reaches for it, she places one hand over his suddenly.

 

 

“You were supposed to get married and have a family and _be happy_ ,” she says quietly. “Why didn’t you?”

 

 

His heart’s beating too fast, and he wishes that he didn’t feel like this all over again, that she wasn't always so bloody insistent. But it’s not like she's ever given up getting answers, and he has one that might suffice. “Well, it’s not for lack of trying. Met a lot of ladies of marriageable age. Most of them were a bit taken aback that a former bastard with a Flea Bottom accent ended up Lord Baratheon. Although they’d suffer me, or their fathers thought they should, to get the title. Which sounded about as miserable as what my father had with that Cersei Lannister, so I didn’t make or accept any offers.”

 

 

She raises her eyebrow in acknowledgment, then tilts her head. “You said most of them.”

 

 

He jerks his hand back, eyes blazing. Why does she always need to pry? “Well, you were there, weren’t you, when I got turned down the first time?”

 

 

Her eyes snap to his, but instead of the cold indifference from that night, she's angry. “Well, you were an idiot to ask! I've never been a lady and you know it!"

 

 

“Oh, I know it, do I? Because lowborn folk swan into my forge and ask for custom made weapons to go with their Valyrian steel daggers? Because lowborn folk expect me to answer personal questions instead of being told to mind their business? Because lowborn folk worry about vengeance more than trying to stay alive?”

 

 

“They killed my family!"

 

 

“And you expected to be able to do something about that! And you did, didn’t you, Arya of House Stark? They still talk about what happened to the Freys. I just wonder how many smallfolk you snuffed while you were playing your power games.”

 

 

Her proud little smile disappears. “None. I offered only their names. It’s rarely those who take orders that are wrong.”

 

 

“Well, good!” he snaps, and then his temper gives out as suddenly as it had flared when he sees how unsure she looks. “I mean, I don't blame you. You were raised having servants to do as you bid and to be proud of your family. And you always did your fair share of the work, never acted like you should have been sleeping on a featherbed instead of the ground with us- but you still think like a highborn, is all I'm saying.”

 

 

She’s definitely rattled. “I thought you meant I could have your babies and wear a dress.”

 

 

He scoffs. “Like I’ve ever seen you in a dress! You ever see Ser Brienne in a dress? Or Lady Greyjoy?”

 

 

She shakes her head once, then looks him in the eye. “I’m sorry."

 

 

He shakes his head dismissively. “Naw, it’s not-“ He stops, shocked. “Did you just apologize?”

 

 

She smiles, flushing, and rolls her eyes. “Don't get used to it."

 

 

They both laugh and she lowers her eyes and hesitates. And that’s all it takes for the atmosphere to shift between them.

 

 

Which makes him nervous all over again. He hates that he’d been a fool, that he still wishes he hadn’t driven her away. He hates that the memory of passion and pleasure, of loving connection and _rightness_ was all one-sided.

 

 

Hates knowing that if she wants to use him for another romp, he’d be a fool all over again in a heartbeat.

 

 

So he swallows and looks towards the kitchens, standing awkwardly. “I'll just go see what's keeping supper. You must be starving after being on the road for so long.”

 

 

He doesn’t know how she moves so fast, or so quietly. But she's suddenly right in front of him, studying his face with that quiet intensity that makes his heart trip faster and his hands ache to touch.

 

 

“I really didn’t mean to hurt you. It was just supposed to feel good.”

 

 

He swallows. “It did. Feel good, I mean. And I know, so... don't worry about it.”

 

 

“It was good for me too. Too good. I wasn’t ready for that.”

 

 

He knows he’s a fool, but he can’t stop that painful rush of hope. After all, he might be misreading her feelings again but-

 

 

“I think- I think I’m ready to be with you now. If you still want to.”

 

 

She’s not like anybody he knows, never has been. And maybe it wasn’t right before, but this time when she kisses him, he hopes that maybe it is. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to make this story canon-compliant after 8x6. Also raised the rating, but if you've been watching Thrones the language and sex should hardly be a surprise.


	2. Rulebreaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because the rules are wrong.

Old Min has kept the castle of Storm’s End for as long as she can remember, like her mother and her mother’s mother before that. She knows how to set aright damp and salt and the messes her little lords make.

 

She’d not expected to see a day when all the little lords she’d raised would fall, when the Great House she served would be scoured from these old stones as if no more than saltscale under vinegar. Soldiers wearing Baratheon colors but doing Lannister bidding had ridden in from Kings Landing. And she’d wept as she'd cleaned the blood from the stones, not understanding why they’d come so far to kill Robert's bastards, mere lowborn children.

 

 

Not understood until the new Lord Baratheon arrives with Ser Davos to vouch for his bloodline and bravery at the Battle of Winterfell.

 

 

“I as much as raised Robert and Renly myself. I can see clear as day who his father was,” Old Min had stated proudly, eyes wet with happy tears. That one of Robert’s blood had managed to escape Cersei’s claws was surely The Father’s justice.

 

 

Lord Gendry might resemble his father in looks and prowess with a warhammer, but he’s obviously not used to having more than he needs. He’s more like Staid Stannis in that way, earnest and dutiful despite his unfamiliarity with his responsibilities and fortunes, working out his frustrations hammering steel in the forge instead of indulging in excess the way she’s used to Baratheon Lords doing.

 

 

It perplexes her a little to see how far the apple fell from the tree until another wild Lady Stark comes to Storm’s End.

 

 

And just like Robert for that Lyanna, Gendry obviously adores this Arya despite- or perhaps because- of her preference for armor and arrows over pretty dresses and jewels.

 

It does warm her heart to see the two of them bickering affectionately- the previous Lady Stark had gone from awkward formality to coldly disdainful when she’d realized how many conquests Robert had made in the village and castle.

 

It’s also a surprise to see that Lord Gendry is actually as passionate and quick to rouse as his father. Arya Stark of Winterfell is no serving girl or milkmaid though, and she’s chosen to visit Storm’s End without chaperone or retinue, caring little for the impropriety of having the whole castle witness her pulling the lord into his chambers time and again, nonetheless that the guest chamber she was supposed to use has remained untouched; her dirty clothing left strewn on the floor by the young lord's tumbled bed instead.

 

Any lady with sense about future marriage prospects would know to at least make a pretense of chastity. Old Min supposes it's what comes from losing her parents and brothers so young, and running wild about the world, if the stories are to be believed. Still, it’s not her place to say anything. And the young lord is obviously so smitten that he will probably offer for her anyway when she falls pregnant.

 

After all, House Baratheon needs heirs. And she hopes it won’t be long until she's dandling another little lord on her knee, one with such grand relations as the King of the Six Kingdoms and the Queen of the North, though she wishes this lady wasn't sharp as a knife and bold as brass.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arya wakes to the sound of the wind howling and rain pounding against the shutters and smiles.

 

 

On the open ocean, storms were often the only source of fresh water, the chance to fill their barrels and survive another week.

 

 

Here they mean Gendry won’t have any petitioners, and that means she can finally keep him with her all morning.

 

 

She rolls over and slides a hand down his body as she nuzzles against his shoulder, inhaling the smell of his skin and smiling smugly when she finds him already half erect. She’s as familiar with his body as her own now, and it seems like the more they make love, the better they get at it.

 

Which pleases her immensely: it’s like any physical skill really, building stamina and muscle memory and learning each other’s preferences and response times in a dance that feels as instinctive as breathing.

 

 

His eyes crack open and he smiles, pulling her close, and the intensity of what she feels when he murmurs her name scares her for only a moment before she kisses him.

 

 _Valar Morgulis_ may be how she survived, but this feels far, far sweeter.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

She relaxes, basking in euphoric repletion after, but her eyes snap open again when instead of cuddling next to her, Gendry presses a kiss to her forehead and rolls away, reaching for his clothing.

 

“Why get up so soon? You won’t have petitions today. And we could have more sex if you stay,” she points out.

 

Gendry chuckles and leans back over to kiss her again. “Tempting. But the storm means I can get down to the forge instead. And I’ve been thinking: that sand has got to be ore if your brother sent it to me. And if it's special enough to bring back across your Sunset Sea, I really want to know what kind of metal it turns into.”

 

That catches her interest. “You still do your own smithing?"

 

He gives her a grin over his shoulder as he pulls on his pants.

 

“Mostly woodsaws, shovels and fishhooks now, but yeah, why not? A lord provides what his people need, and I was pretty good at it before I got made into a lord.”

 

She has to smile. “Stop being modest. We would have lost Winterfell in the first hour if your dragonglass blades hadn’t cut through those wights like they were paper.”

 

He shrugs and tilts his head good-naturedly, but she can tell that pleases him. Curiosity piqued, she asks casually, “You like this forge better than Winterfell’s?”

 

He nods enthusiastically. “Yeah, I mean that was a proper castle forge, but this one burns even hotter- supposed to be spells cast on the walls of this castle, and I think they did the forge too.” He gives her a teasing look. “Plus I’m not freezing my balls off while I’m working.”

 

“Soft little Southern boy.”

 

“Nasty, naughty Northern girl.”

  

She purses her lips and shrugs before nodding in agreement, and he laughs before getting distracted.

 

 

“What are you doing?”

 

 

She smiles innocently. “With my hand? Just here?” She lets her legs fall open to give him a better view. “Being nasty and naughty and northern, I suppose.”

 

 

She smiles wider when his response is to take his pants off again.

 

 

Turns out she was wrong about the “soft” part.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

They’re breaking their fast when Maester Darren arrives.

 

 

“Pardon me and good morning, my lord, my lady. We received some ravens after you’d retired for the evening. One of these is for you from Lannisport, my lady,” he says, handing over the small rolls of parchment. “I’ll be in my chambers if you’d like to submit any replies, but sending will have to wait until the storm has passed."

 

 

Gendry looks up from his own messages in surprise, but Arya simply studies the seal before cracking it with her thumbnail with practiced ease.

 

 

“Who else knows you’re here?"

 

 

“Sent a raven to my first mate before I left King’s Landing. Nymeria needed repairs, so we berthed in Lannisport,” she replies absently, reading.

 

 

Gendry exhales heavily and lowers his voice. “…I thought... I was your first? In Winterfell."

 

 

Arya looks up and gives him an amused smile. “First mate means second in command on a ship. Not like us.”

 

 

The housekeeper huffs, obviously scandalized by the conversation she was eavesdropping on, and Arya rolls her eyes when she mutters something about the kitchens and hustles from the room.

 

 

_“Arya.”_

 

 

She scoffs. “So what if we're fucking? You're not married, I'm not married, and we're not related. I don't see why anybody cares since we're not hurting anybody or breaking any laws."

 

 

“You don’t need to give her such a hard time about it. She's old, she probably has... traditional ideas.”

 

 

Arya snorts. “Only for _ladies_ , I bet. I bet you could have half the serving girls in the castle, and she’d not even blink."

 

 

Gendry exhales again, flustered, and looks away.

 

 

“See. You fucked at least one that she knew about and I bet she was sweet as always, fussing over your porridge and changing the sheets without complaint.”

 

 

He gapes at her. “How do you just _know_ stuff like that?”

 

 

She lifts a brow and tilts her head at him. “You’re terrible at the game of faces.” But then she softens. “It’s one of my favorite things about you.”

 

 

He tries to explain. “…I didn’t think you were ever coming back.”

 

 

“Neither did I. I really don’t mind. I wanted you to. I thought you'd meet somebody nice and really fall in love and forget all about me."

 

 

“Are you serious? We spent how many years traveling together and then… _that night_ and then... you killed _the Night King_ and you thought I’d somehow forget about you?”

 

 

She looks at him hesitantly, wishing his words didn’t get her so emotional. “Being with a Stark tends to get people killed. You were so good to me as a girl, and… good for me that night. So I tried to forget you too, tried other people, because I thought you deserved better. Someone whole, not half No One, with one foot in the grave. As Lord of Storm’s End, you should have had your pick. …I can’t even explain how it felt when Bran told me you were still alone.”

 

 

Gendry studies her face, then looks away. “I didn't want to be. But it’s not the same, just fucking without…"

 

 

“…all the feelings. I know. I mean, I figured I would find somebody else I’d have feelings for, maybe in a few years. ...But I'm really glad Bran told me.”

 

 

Gendry frowns in sudden realization. “You think he knows we...”

 

 

Arya’s thoughtful for a long moment. “He asked me to look for two things on the other side: sand that smells like blood. And Silphium. Both led me here.”

 

 

Gendry frowns. “What’s Silphium?"

 

 

Arya lifts her cup and savors a long sip before she looks him in the eye and smiles.

 

 

“Freedom.”

 

 


	3. Lightbringer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because the woman is important too.

_Dear Sansa,_

_No, I don’t plan on going to Winterfell. I just think it’s too depressing when neither Jon nor Bran can join us. I don’t know if it was Bran or Ser Brienne who told you, but while my plans to come to Storm’s End were made hastily, I am truly enjoying my time here. Yes, the whispers about Gendry and I are true and no, I don’t want or need a dowry. I expect I’ll be sailing back across the Sunset Sea before autumn._

_I’m glad you’re well, and that the North prospers._

_Your loving sister,_

_Arya Stark_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Gendry still thinks the responsibility of lordship is terrifyingly heavy, even if strength is supposed to be in his blood. If he'd known the full extent of what being Lord of Storm's End had entailed in the first place –-and if he'd been less terrified that the Dragon Queen was about to kill him-- he might not have ever agreed.

 

It’s been lots of learning: learning to read words and ledgers and maps, all the Stormlands banners and house/hold names and systems he’d never before had to think about, from taxes to roadwork to raven training. Not to mention all the dealing-with-people learning: getting to know bannermen and tenants, how to handle petitions fairly and what work to delegate to who- _whom_ , negotiating with _other_ kingdoms... It was a lot, like being confronted with the daunting task of arming the North with a small mine of dragonglass- he’d had no idea how to even start, just that it had to get done.

 

And just like that monumental undertaking, he’d learned on the job, contributed his ideas and gotten plenty of help, and now he’s the better for it, even besides the Baratheon name and castle. He’s always been decent with figures, but being able to read has really opened his eyes. Gendry’s never considered himself clever, but he’s sure that it’s easier to make better choices now that he has access to messages via raven and knows the history –-and rewritten history-- of certain events.

 

It’s also nice to make a difference in people’s lives beyond putting weapons in their hands or giving them a decent price on armor. More and more, there's respect in people’s eyes based on a fixed well or fair judgment instead of who his father was or what he did in a battle up North.

 

Maybe taking up his family's legacy is what that feeling of destiny that had dogged him for so long was all about.

 

 

And Arya, charging into his life again like one of the sudden storms off the bay, changes things.

 

 

It’s not just the sex, but truly nothing feels as good as being inside her and sucking those perfect tits- except maybe feeling her reach her peak while he's inside her and sucking those perfect tits. She’s been even more hungry for him lately, waking up from strange dreams as needy as a bitch in heat, and he can hardly refuse her, despite the knowing looks his castellan and maester share when he's bleary eyed and yawning during the day.

 

It’s hard to resist proposing again, but he knows to hold his tongue this time. It's enough to hear her laugh and see her eyes light up as they share stories of their travels and troubles the way they hadn’t at Winterfell. To realize that she’s been making friends in odd places the way she does, although he knows he acts the lovestruck fool when Lord Caron’s young son, Old Oyster Tom down the bay or the butcher’s wife unexpectedly ask after her. Arya's comfortable enough now to help herself to cheese off his plate, hog all the ravens in the rookery to send flurries of messages and sprawl across his bed with a book, and he’s so happy that she seems content here that he’s terrified something is going to change.

 

 

He’s never known Arya to be content. Questing, questioning, fighting what’s unfair- that’s the Arya he knows. And once she’s done exploring the Stormlands and whatever this is between them…

 

 

He doesn’t want to think about that- what’s more pressing is that he has no idea how he’s supposed to deal with the whole Realm apparently knowing about them.

 

He’s had everything from unsolicited advice from Lord Bronn about not letting an unlanded second daughter catch his castle with her cunt, to unabashed delight from Ser Davos, with a hopeful note about the closest godswood location being King’s Landing since Stannis burned the one at Storm's End.

 

 

 _She just wants my cock and company and to sometimes watch me hammering steel_ is probably not a satisfactory answer to anybody, even if he thinks it’s the closest thing to the truth. He’s not ready for a baby either, and he’s glad she's taking that Silphium so they can make love without having to worry. It’s just that everybody expects there to be consequences for a lowborn lord taking a twice-over princess to his bed.

 

 

So he really has to assume the worst when King Bran summons them to King’s Landing.

 

 

Arya’s got that carefully blank look on her face when she reads the summons before she shrugs. “Well, spring is coming, so I think we should go before.”

 

 

Sometimes, he thinks she acts as nonplussed as she does just to piss him off. “Do I have to remind you that Brandon and Rickard Stark went to King’s Landing to protest the defiling of Lyanna Stark’s honor and ended up _murdered_?”

 

 

Arya gives him a withering look. “That was for _treason_. And you haven’t defiled my anything."

 

 

He checks that none of the servants are in earshot before he scoffs. “Yeah, well, I know how I’d feel if I were your Three eyed Raven brother and I could see how hard we were going at it last night.”

 

 

She has the sense to flush, at least. “I’m sure he doesn’t- that can’t be what this is about.”

 

 

“Well, what else could it be about?! You know I’ve been hearing from your uncle Edmure, even, about my intentions.” He straightens as a horrifying thought strikes him. "You think someone will tell Jon?”

 

 

As soon as he says it, he regrets it. Nothing makes sorrow fill her eyes the way thinking of Jon in exile does. “No. Bran says he left Castle Black for the far North more than a year ago.” She inhales shakily and continues. “It’s probably about the things I brought back, like the ore and hopefully, the Silphium. Since it’s a meeting with the small council it’s got to be official business. Anyway, we can hardly refuse to go.”

 

 

He grimaces and she gives him an impish smile. “I'll protect you."

 

 

Gendry sighs. “That actually makes me feel better,” he admits.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Gendry’s never been asked before the small council, but he knows that all the biggest decisions in Westeros are made in this little room. The reconstructed throne room is for official declarations and presentations, while the policies leading to those are debated and decided here. It’s somewhat comforting that he actually knows most of the powerful people who will be attending, even if only by correspondence.

 

 

Also somewhat comforting that he’s checked and double checked, and there isn't actually a law against unmarried people being lovers.

 

 

Still, he hangs back when Arya runs up to the King and hugs him. “Bran! You been keeping busy?”

 

 

“Of course. A great deal to do here every day. Sometimes I even spend more time here than away. You look happy.”

 

 

She hesitates and casts her eyes downward for a second, as if gauging, before she smiles back. “I am happy. And I’ll be happier if this meeting goes the way I want it to.”

 

 

Bran smiles enigmatically. “Anything is possible. Especially with a determined champion. You’re tired though. You’ve been dreaming of her.”

 

 

Arya meets his eyes anxiously. “I don’t understand why. I’m no warg- I never used to feel… disturbed after dreams. They were just... dreams. And I last saw her in the north part of the Riverlands, so she’s not even near here.”

 

 

“The blood of the First Men runs true, but you weren’t a woman yet then. Besides, she _is_ near- traveling south to her mate.” Bran smiles. “Can you guess where his territory is? I doubt it's coincidence.”

 

 

Arya scowls. “Will the dreams stop when she gets there?”

 

 

Bran pauses reflectively. “I don’t know. But I suppose we’ll know soon enough.” He looks past Arya then, at Gendry. “Lord Baratheon, it’s good to see you again.”

 

 

Gendry bows the way he knows he’s supposed to, although his stomach is in knots. “Your Grace. I was hoping-”

 

 

Bran holds up a hand to forestall his attempt at explanation. “You don’t need to be ashamed to love her. A conventional arrangement wouldn’t suit my sister anyway. And it is good to see her happy. The talk will die down now that we've spoken in public.”

 

 

Gendry exhales, feeling his nervous tension slowly deflate even as Arya flushes and looks away before muttering some excuse and walking over to Ser Davos. “I- thank you.”

 

 

“You’re welcome. I have an important question for you: Dragonglass carries edges sharper than any steel blade, but is almost as brittle as the glass it's named for. How did you make blades that endured through the Long Night?”

 

 

Gendry blinks at the unexpected change of subject. He’s never even seen Bran hold a weapon, and he was expecting to get challenged, to have to apologize, to have to beg, even. He glances around the room, noting that the Hand and Master of Coin still haven’t arrived, and tilts his head, scrambling to recall his line of thinking. "I…actually got the idea from a couple places. On Dragonstone, the men there kept talking about how the Dragon Queen was Azor Ahai come again. And there’s this story about how he made his best sword by tempering it a hundred days and then plunging the hot blade into the heart of his wife. Which sounds perfectly mad, and is not what I did, I promise,” he explains hurriedly. "…But I’d seen, for myself, a blood spell.”

 

 

“There is power in King's blood."

 

 

Gendry gapes for a moment- those were Melisandre's exact words. "...Right. And I figured it was worth a try; just to put in a couple drops before we filled the molds, see what happened. And it was like..."

 

 

“Magic.”

 

 

Bran meets his eyes, expectant, and Gendry suddenly understands. “That steel Arya brought back, I should quench it in my blood then, like the story? And it’ll what? Light on fire like Lord Beric's sword?"

 

 

“You fought at the Battle for the Dawn; you know any blade can be lit with a spell. Lightbringer was a sword imbued with the power to bring down the Others."

 

 

Gendry automatically looks at the dagger that always hangs at Arya’s side, and he swallows thickly as understanding starts to dawn. “…Are- are you saying we could make Valyrian steel again?”

 

 

“I am saying _you_ can make Valyrian steel again,” Bran says calmly.

 

 

An actual punch to the gut would probably have felt less shocking, especially since he’d been braced for something like. And from the little smile Bran is wearing, it might actually have been the exact effect he was going for- Gendry’s face is numb and his ears are ringing and all he can think is _fuck I left Valyrian steel ore on a bench in the forge_ before Lord Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King, finally enters the room with Lord Bronn.

 

 

Ser Podrick hurries over from where he was speaking quietly with Ser Brienne to push the king to the head of the table, and everyone moves to stand behind a chair. Gendry automatically takes the one next to Arya at the end of the table, grateful they’ll be able to sit soon because he feels absolutely winded.

 

 

Bran gestures for them all to sit, and once they do so, Lord Tyrion begins. “Arya Stark, the Hero of Winterfell; Lord Gendry Baratheon, thank you for joining us here today. Our King has asked us to convene today to discuss something his sister has brought back from across the Sunset Sea.” He produces a small bag of heart shaped seeds that he pours out into a small dish on the table. “Following your last visit, the small council has frequently debated your proposal. Our King believes the introduction of the herb Silphium to the Six Kingdoms will improve the lives of many. There are, however, many issues to be addressed before the Crown invests in a controversial import.”

 

 

Despite still reeling over Bran’s revelation, Gendry notices the way Arya goes all alert, placing small numbered rolls of parchment in front of herself –correspondence she's been gathering at Storm’s End-- as she listens to the opening objections from the Masters, her expression carefully neutral.

 

 

That face masks her feelings, but he can see from her posture that this is the new battle that Arya’s chosen to fight.

 

 

She’s not the wildly defiant spitfire that she used to be- she’s figured out all her offensive strategies beforehand. And she wields them like swords once it's her turn to speak: economic figures, price and side effect comparisons to moon tea, and tax records to throw back at Lord Bronn; medical records from Oldtown to show how many young first time mothers and babies die compared to ones with mothers just a few years older; stories of prosperity in the lands over the Sunset Sea and a plea for common sense over possible religious objections.

 

 

“People will still have sex, whether in or out of marriage- Silphium doesn’t affect their passions or morality. The only thing it affects is whether the couple can decide to have a child or not when they do. Imagine King's Landing with only a handful of unwanted children on the streets. Imagine smallfolk being able to give good meals to two children instead of struggling to feed five. Imagine girls being able to study and work towards a better future instead of birthing and nursing child after child until their bodies give out. It’s possible. _I’ve seen it._  I've walked through those streets, bought bread and cloth from their shops. If we give this opportunity to women, Westeros will be the better for it, I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

 

 

Looking at that blazing conviction in her eyes, Gendry thinks that Arya’s more a Lightbringer than any burning sword could ever be.

 

 

And if she wins this battle, she’s going to have to sail back to get more of that Silphium.

 

 

Which means he’s probably going to get his heart cleaved in two after all.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay I know I’m a pedantic loser who cares that obsidian is truly a terrible material for weapons. (Scalpels, on the other hand…) But I think this explanation works with what we know about magic in GoT. Also, while the Lightbringer story is probably meant as foreshadowing for Jon shanking Dany, it’s also framed as a Tragic Story about how a Hero will Sacrifice a woman to get a Magic Sword which lol f*ck off lemme fix-it.
> 
> I tried to keep the social justice soap box to a minimum, but if we are talking about Breaking Wheels, birth control has been shown across years and nations to be one of the most incredible forces of social change, and Silphium was a real contraceptive from antiquity that helped to build Rome. I think Arya is perfectly positioned post-canon to be the instrument of shattering that particular spoke of The Wheel, so I couldn’t resist trying to weave all those threads into one story. 
> 
> Probably only one or two more chapters- thanks for any kudos and comments!


	4. Nymeria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because she can be his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting- started a new job a couple weeks ago and it is sucking up all my writing time and energy but I'm positive I can finish this fic, promise!  
> The wolf-dreams are more book-canon than show-canon, but since there's nothing saying she DOESN'T have them in showverse, I'm running with it.

 

 

 

For once, Arya doesn't chafe at the plodding speed of bureaucracy. The small council has _finally_ made the decision to procure a large starter supply of Silphium, but it’s still taking weeks for the money --and therefore everything else— to get moving.

 

 

So she’s determined not to waste her time left at Storm’s End.

 

 

She really likes it here, with the crystal blue water, dense, deep-rooted woods and ferocious storms. Likes the stubbornly scattered hamlets of the Stormlords; the availability of spices and dyes from across the Narrow Sea; the local diet laden with foods from woods and water, not just pastures and farms. Cersei had tried to tax them into submission by taking extra grain and heads of livestock and the Stormlanders just collected more nuts and mushrooms, dug up clams and conches and let that evil bitch think she’d won.

 

 

Definitely her kind of people.

 

 

Plus they love Gendry. It makes her heart swell with pride when toothless fishermen and children alike brag that Lord Baratheon made their fish hooks; to see how excited they are to see him at the summer salt haul because he’d won some rowing contest to Tarth the previous year.

 

 

“Blood will tell. Real Baratheon shoulders on that one, even if he came out of the big city.”

 

 

She has to agree that they’re nice shoulders, and that he’s bearing the responsibilities of being Lord Paramount over lands he's had to learn about admirably. Spring has him up before first light and collapsing into bed late, supervising the rotation of seed grain, men, horses, plows and furrows around tenant farms on top of his usual responsibilities.

 

 

And because he’s Gendry, he only complains about how he doesn’t get to be in the forge as much as he would like, just hunkering down and getting on with the actual work.

 

 

She hopes with his people keeping him busy, maybe he won’t be as lonely once she has to leave. He’s been stubbornly avoiding talking about it, but the anguish that sometimes flashes in his eyes when he looks at her and the quiet desperation in his lovemaking speak volumes.

 

 

Maybe if they'd had enough time for the passion between them to simmer down into something like what her parents had, she'd feel less like she’s betraying them both by leaving while it’s still so incredibly intense. She refuses to regret the past few months, though: they’ll both get to keep these memories forever, even if their lives go sideways all over again. Feeling everything to the fullest comes with the risk of getting hurt, and she knows she’s a hypocrite to be cringing away from what she brought on herself.

 

 

But she’s going to miss storm days tucked in the circle of his arms, his heart beating under her ear while the winds howl outside; miss how right it feels when they agree on important things and argue over stupid shit; miss being able to wake him up in the middle of the night for sex.

 

 

Which is something she’s not had to do for weeks, and she knows it's idiotic to feel bereft over being able to sleep soundly at night again, but she can’t help but worry why the gagging-for-it dreams suddenly stopped.

 

 

Hang Bran and his cryptic advice. He could have at least told her which part of the Stormlands Nymeria would be in. She’s been searching every day since they got back, and she’s saddling her white mare as usual when one of the stableboys comes running. “Milady, please don't go yet! Milord Baratheon's lookin' for you! Said to stop you before you left!"

 

 

She slows, perplexed. “Just finished breaking fast with him, Gavin. Isn’t he holding petitions?”

 

 

“Yes, Milady, and there was an urgent one first thing. If it please-“

 

 

Arya’s already started walking towards the Great Hall, and Gavin skips to keep up, excitement shining in his eyes as he continues.

 

 

“There's to be a hunt, milady! Lord Baratheon says you’re the best archer here and there’s a great, dirty wolf robbin’ sheep!"

 

 

She stops dead in her tracks.

 

 

_Well, shit._

 

* * *

 

 

She keeps to the steady pace set by the group even though she wishes they could be going faster. The stonemason who had hiked for days to ask for his liege lord’s help isn’t used to riding, but he’s on a reliable mount that can be counted on to follow the one in front of his. He'll probably be sore as hell after the day’s ride, but the need for haste means traveling horseback.

 

She’s relieved Gendry overrode objections and assigned most of his men to keep sowing fields, although she understands their outrage. She doubts her own father would have called off a hunt for a sheep killer no matter how much she had begged, and she bitterly hopes this decision doesn’t undermine the support Gendry’s earned.

 

 

_“You think it’s your old direwolf? The one who bit Prince Joffrey?”_

 

_“I drove her away after or they would have killed her. I’ve been looking for her every day since Bran told me she was in the Stormlands. I promise I will pay for every sheep that's been taken."_

_“...Will you be able to stop her from raiding the pasture again?”_

_“…I don’t know.”_

_“…Arya…"_

_“Please, my lord. If your men kill her, they’ll be killing a piece of me. Just let me go find her."_

The stricken way he’d looked at her is still vivid in her mind, as is the rebuke he’d given her in private after, when he’d told her he was coming with them.

 

 

_“Arya, just let me help you! Would have done all along, if you’d just told me! I could have asked my holders and bannermen to keep an eye out if you’d trusted me to. Why didn’t you?”_

 

 

It stings to know not only that she’d hurt him, but that she’d been shortsighted enough to fall back into bad habits. She knows why too: coming back to Westeros, right into the thick of all the politicking and competing agendas has her guard up. She’s gotten better at relying on people again, at delegating tasks to those better suited and asking for help. Why was she still so scared to ask Gendry?

 

 

She hates the answer for that, so she ignores it for now. The more immediate problem: the stonemason will probably fall off his horse soon.

 

 

“My lord Gendry!” she shouts.

 

 

He turns back and when she jerks her head at the stonemason, he nods and reins in his horse and everybody else follows suit.

 

 

“Mason Gerber, you all right?”

 

 

“Forgive me, milord. I ain’t used to ridin'."

 

 

Gendry nods sympathetically. “It’s all right. Neither was I. And if I remember correct, it’s another half-day’s ride, so we won’t make it by nightfall anyway. Best thing you can do is walk off the worst of the stiffness and rest.”

 

 

Arya swallows her own impatience- she owes the mason both her silver and courtesy if Nymeria’s at fault. And everybody’s mood –-even her own-- improves when she slips away for a hunt and adds a couple rabbits and a woodcock to their evening meal.

 

 

Even if there were mutters about her unseemly influence over Lord Baratheon and meddling beyond her rights earlier, she can do her bit here for them well enough.

 

 

The stonemason looks like he’s still in pain, but he’s obviously relieved to be back on the ground, stretching his legs in the warmth by the fire. “You Northerners used to havin’ wolves round, then, milady?”

 

 

Gendry gives her a knowing smirk, but she just shrugs slightly. She’d rather get _milady_ now than _princess_ or _your highness_ , any day.

 

 

“Not really. Settlements are even more scattered up North than they are here. Prey thrives where people aren't, and wolves follow. Direwolves are usually only found north of the wall now, though. Legend says they were more common back when House Stark was first established, but that was thousands of years ago,” Arya replies quietly.

 

 

“Well, she sure is a big ‘un. We don’t usually have trouble- she dens down with Old Black in the Kingswood and whelps pups with him every spring. She’s no valley wolf though- she'll leave him and take the pups back North with her before storm season.”

 

 

“...Every year?” Gendry asks.

 

 

“Every year since she started coming down this way. Not sure what's changed so that she's grabbin’ sheep though. Plenty of game in the woods."

 

 

 _Probably me somehow,_ Arya thinks, but she says nothing. It _is_ odd- back in Winterfell all their direwolves had been trained to stay away from the farmed animals, and Nymeria’s pack must have done so as well, or they’d have been hunted down. Still, while she’d been Arya’s she’d often been fed mutton, and she wonders if Nymeria expects it somehow now that she’s near.

 

 

Wonders if that thread between them is anything she can use, if she'll even feel it if it’s cut.

 

 

She really can’t bear to see Gendry wield that warhammer of his against Nymeria, or to watch Nymeria tear into him if he isn’t fast enough.

 

 

 

It’s really best if they don’t meet at all.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Once they get to the holdfast, a picturesque place between quarry, pasture and wood, she pulls Gendry aside. “I have to go alone to find her.”

 

 

“What?!"

 

 

“You’ve gotten your stonemason home safe, and me here. But it’s best if she doesn't sense a threat. And there’s always some idiot who can’t keep themselves from loosing once they’ve got an arrow nocked and ready."

 

 

There it is, that spark of indignant fury in his eyes. “I came all this way to watch your back for you-“

 

 

“ _And you have._ It's always safer to travel in a group, and easier to split watches at night. But the last time I met Nymeria I was alone. And she acted like I was a threat until I threw down Needle. I need her to trust me if I’m going to make any headway into stopping her from grabbing sheep. I can’t do it with a bunch of armed men there with no loyalty to me. Ghost was the runt of the litter, Gendry, and you've seen how he still scares people witless. Men react predictably when they’re afraid.”

 

 

He’s afraid for her too, and it’s written all over his face. “She’s got to be a lot wilder than you remember if she’s taking sheep now, Arya."

 

 

Arya shakes her head and keeps her face deliberately calm. “She remembered me before and called off her pack. And this is just going to be two wolves, not twenty. Those dreams I was having: that was _her_. She's still _my_ direwolf. The only one I’m worried about is her mate, since he doesn’t know me.”

 

 

She’s careful not to emphasize _how_ worried she actually is about that possibility. She knows how to fight people, not animals. And she can’t predict how Nymeria will react if she kills her mate or vice versa.

 

 

But she knows her own.

 

 

So she unbuckles Needle’s holster and holds the sword out to him. “I’ll keep my dagger and bow in case I bump into him first. Can you keep this safe for me in the meantime?"

 

 

Gendry exhales sharply and meets her eye, surprised and visibly moved. And that seals it for her: he knows exactly how much Needle means.

 

 

“…’Course.”

 

 

“Thanks.” And then, because she might not get the chance again, she tiptoes and kisses him gently before she whispers.

 

 

“…I love you."

 

 

The tears that spring into his eyes and the convulsive way he holds on to her make her own eyes dampen in response.

 

 

“…What the hell, Arya?” he says hoarsely.

 

 

“You’re supposed to say it back,” she points out.

 

 

“You know I’m in love with you- that isn’t the point! Why would you pick _right now_ to finally say that to me?” he demands, searching her eyes.

 

 

He relents just as suddenly when he seems to realize the answer. “You’re not sure you're coming back."

 

 

So much for him not being able to play the game of faces.

 

 

“Gendry. _Please._ I wouldn’t if I saw any other way.”

 

 

He opens his mouth before he shuts it and swallows hard. Then he pulls her close and kisses her, long and tinged with reluctance.

 

 

“…Fine. We’ll do this your way. But I’m going after you if you’re not back by sunset."

 

She closes her eyes and sighs with relief. “Deal.”

 

 

He rests his forehead against hers. “I know you took down the Night King with just that dagger. But I'm still going to worry to death.”

 

 

She has to smile, heartened by the reminder. "Well, try to stay alive anyway or I'll be pissed."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Arya cautiously follows the trail into the wood for a couple of hours. It’s immediately obvious a large predator has moved into the territory- all the bigger game has fled and she sees wolf scat, although the hum of insects and intermittent birdsong make her think she’s still alone for now.

 

 

She manages to shoot a couple squirrels with her bow, and then she waits. The smell of blood will hopefully draw her in.

 

 

But she's still caught off guard when Nymeria approaches from behind with a snarl, ears flattened to her head and bristling with suspicious confusion.

 

 

She hadn’t sensed her at all- whatever had connected them in dreams doesn’t seem tangible at all in the flesh.

 

 

Instead, she discards her bow and dagger, never breaking her gaze from the direwolf’s. “It’s me. Arya. Come on, girl, it's all right.”

 

 

Nymeria relaxes as soon as the weapons hit the forest floor and slowly approaches, ears perking up. She gives her a thorough sniff over while Arya holds still, not wanting to startle her. It’s a step forward from last time anyway; so for good measure, Arya peels off her gloves and discards them before extending her bare hands for her to smell.

 

 

She gives a laugh that is half-sob when Nymeria shoves her nose into her palm and starts wagging her tail.

 

 

“See? Just me.” She gives her a careful pat and staggers back when Nymeria settles her bulk down next to her abruptly. Seven Hells, she’s gotten _big_.

 

 

Nymeria nudges her hand impatiently, and she has to laugh. “…Right. More pats. Got it.”

 

 

It gives her the chance to inspect her more closely while she gives ear rubs and scratches and Nymeria bolts down the offered squirrels. There are a few scars hidden under her fur, but she’s in good health and pregnant, as expected. Her fur seems shorter than the last time she'd seen her, but it’s probably a result of the season changing, or maybe just being so far South.

 

 

When Nymeria abruptly stands, Arya hastily checks behind her, half expecting to see “Old Black” come snarling out of the underbrush. But she just seems to have had enough, and she pads back over to the objects Arya discarded, probably hoping to find more food.

 

 

“Just weapons and my gloves, Nymeria. If you’ll let me get my bow, I can try to get you something else to eat though.”

 

 

Nymeria’s ears twitch, and she tilts her head, as if confused.

 

 

Then she takes hold of the gloves and trots back over, dropping them in front of Arya before sitting and letting her tongue loll out proudly.

 

 

Arya’s glad she’s out here on her own, that nobody can see the tears welling up in her eyes.

 

 

“That’s right, girl. Gloves.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arya emerges from the treeline cautiously, and she’s glad she had the sense to ask Nymeria to wait.

 

 

His men all have bows at hand. At least it’s not longbows for a proper hunt, but their small ones for the trail. And once Gendry spots her, he immediately signals them to stand down, walking quickly toward her with relief written all over his face.

 

 

“Get them to stay at a distance or she’s going to be agitated," she shouts.

 

 

“You brought her back with you?” he calls back in disbelief, but he signals his men to move back towards the cottage, and they comply, albeit slowly and reluctantly.

 

 

Arya gives him an exasperated look before she reaches him and pulls him down to her for a quick kiss before rubbing her cheeks over his and deliberately linking their hands.

 

 

“…What are you doing?”

 

 

“Marking you. I didn't think of it until she was sniffing me in the crotch earlier,” she admits.

 

 

The bewildered look on his face turns into one of dawning comprehension. “Arya, I never even got near Ghost."

 

 

“She could probably smell you on me anyway, but I just want to make sure. You need to put down Needle and your hammer too,” she says, tossing her bow and dagger to the ground again.

 

 

Gendry makes a choking sound, aghast. “That’s Valyrian Steel!”

 

 

Arya gives him an amused look. “Yeah, so it’s practically indestructible.”

 

 

“Still worth a gold mine!” he argues before he sighs and lays down the weapons he carries. “I don't have a choice in this, do I?”

 

 

“No. Training her to leave the sheep alone might actually have worked, but this will take far less time. Just make sure your men don’t panic and shoot us," she warns.

 

 

Then she walks back toward the trees and calls. “Nymeria! Come!"

 

 

Nymeria the pup would have bounded out without hesitation, but now she’s far more cautious and far less blindly obedient. She emerges reluctantly from cover, ears flat against her head but not snarling- yet.

 

 

Which changes instantly when the men shout at the sight of her. Gendry, annoyed, holds a hand up to quiet them and Arya keeps walking towards her direwolf, deliberate and calm.

 

 

“Easy, Nymeria. Just meeting someone, I promise. Shhh,” she soothes, and Nymeria’s snarl dies away once Arya gets close enough to offer her bare hand again. She whines, unsure, as Arya rubs the underside of her snout.

 

 

“See? Just me and Gendry nearby. And the rest of them will stay back like he says. We’re fine.”

 

 

She stands there, holding her direwolf’s head to hers and talking to her patiently until Nymeria’s ears perk up again. Then she leads her forward a step. Then another. And another.

 

 

She can hear Gendry breathing harder as they get closer, but she’s focused on Nymeria.

 

 

“Shhhh, he won’t hurt you. He’s good people; he’s always safe. You’ll see, you can smell him on me already, right? Come on, just a little closer. …Gendry, slowly hold out your hand?”

 

 

“Fuckin’ hell, Arya,” he mutters, but he complies.

 

 

He flinches when Nymeria growls low in warning when their eyes meet, but he keeps his hand out.

 

 

Nymeria sniffs it, and the growling stops and her ears pep up curiously. She steps forward to sniff his crotch and chest and face before turning back to Arya.

 

 

“See? I told you,” she says warmly, and lavishes her with rubs and scratches. “Who’s my good girl?”

 

 

They all startle when they hear a howl come from the woods, and Nymeria immediately turns and bounds back.

 

 

“Nymeria!” Arya calls reflexively.

 

 

The direwolf stops and turns back to look at her, and Arya hesitates.

 

 

They’d only gotten a few hours together. And she remembers so much more than she’d expected…

 

 

_She has a mate, a den, and pups on the way. And you’re sailing as soon as winds are favorable._

 

 

She gulps and blinks back tears. “Stay out of trouble! Now, go!”

 

 

Nymeria turns and lopes back into the woods.

 

 

Gendry lets out a breath he was obviously holding and puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You all right?”

 

 

Arya considers for a second before she turns to him with a smile. “Yeah. Better than that, even.” She leans against him. “Thank you.”

 

 

He shakes his head. “Can’t believe she was that close and she didn’t bite my hand off. Or anything else.”

 

 

She snorts with laughter. “You know you share your bed with a wolf every night. Speaking of which…”

 

 

Arya grins at Gendry, her eyes bright. “I need you to pull your cock out and take a piss on the woodland side of the fence."

 

 

“What?!” His eyes widen when he realizes why she’s shaking with laughter and he scoffs and shakes his head. “Should have known you'd never let me forget I said that.”

 

 

She gives him a wicked grin and arches a brow. “Best served cold. But I’m serious: wolf packs start with two, and she knows you’re my mate now. So I need you to mark your territory, Lord Baratheon. You might have to renew it next year, but I think once should be enough. The North remembers."

 

 

And she knows that for certain now.

 

 

“Truly? That's all?”

 

 

She twitches her shoulders noncommittally. "I’ll need to mark too, but I'm not squatting while your men can see."

 

 

Gendry’s matter-of-fact. “I’ll ask them to give us some privacy.” He gives her an appraising look. “Real glad we solved this without any more bloodshed. They might not be used to a Baratheon who doesn’t give a shit about glory and hunting trophies, but that’s who they’ve got.”

 

 

She looks at him, surprised. And she smiles when she realizes what he means.

 

 

“I think that’s the best kind of lord they could ask for,” she says softly.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They’ve both agreed to err on the side of discretion while there’s only a bit of tent canvas between them and everybody else, but it’s hard to resist temptation when he pulls her close that night.

 

 

“So you love me, huh?”

 

 

She cuddles back against him and slides her hand possessively over his arm, chuckling at how smug he sounds. “Mmm.”

 

 

“And wolves mate for life?”

 

 

That sobers her, but she answers softly anyway. “They do.”

 

 

“Can’t wait to get you home,” he groans, nuzzling her neck. She sighs and brings his hand to her breast, pressing her bum up against him in unspoken invitation.

 

 

It would spoil the moment to tell him that wolves only den down a few months of the year.

 

 

 

 

So she doesn’t.

 

 

 

 


	5. Fold, Hammer, Quench

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because she can decide what she wants to be.

Gendry’s never been grateful to his former master for much, but he has to believe it was fate that he’d apprenticed with the only smith in Westeros who could rework Valyrian steel.

 

Sure, Mott had trusted nobody but himself to do the actual forging, but the one given the thankless task of keeping the forge at the right temperature overnight?

 

 

The bastard apprentice, naturally.

 

 

It was only the once, but Gendry still remembers how excited he’d been- nobles kept Valyrian steel weapons locked in their castles as they were relics from a lost civilization, rarer and more precious than chests of gemstones. However, in times of war even nobles had occasionally become desperate, and one had hired Mott to reforge a longsword into two short swords so he could use one to pay off some great debt.

 

 

Gendry remembers how carefully they’d had to wrap and pack that beautiful blade in clay so that the metal would melt but not breathe. Remembers the color the flames needed to be, how carefully he’d stoked the forge, how he’d staggered with exhaustion in the morning, but had still breathlessly waited to fall onto his cot until after he watched Mott crack it and pour the molds.

 

 

That had given him a point of reference for smelting the rest of the ore sand Arya had brought him, but what was interesting was that cracking the slag after it cooled had revealed a steel bloom with three distinct layers.

 

 

He can remember his amazement when the new blades Mott poured had emerged from the molds with the same marbled appearance of the original. It should have been impossible, but Mott had chalked it up to magic in the steel’s original forging, and in retrospect, Gendry supposes he must have been right. And he’s thought about the process almost constantly since the small council meeting.

 

 

If Azor Ahai had really needed to temper the steel for up to a hundred days, he was either starting with poor quality ore like an idiot --or he was folding and forge-welding different types of steel together multiple times. Valyrian steel surely looked like the latter, but even the best folded steel never held the forever-keen edge or the light heft of Valyrian steel, so speculation has always been rampant about how to take it that final step: magic spells and dragonfire were the usual guesses.

 

 

Since King Bran’s as much as said this is the correct ore, Gendry figures he's got to fold the three types together. But hammering steel pure and thin, folding and forge-welding it repeatedly is careful, meticulous work. So he's put it off until he knows he can spend at least a few focused hours a day in the forge, endlessly turning over the method and blade design in his head in the meantime. And now that spring is finally over, he has weeks of just the usual Lord duties until the weather gets hot and calm enough for salt making.

 

 

He’s intimidated for sure: to keep his name off registered lists, he’d never gotten anything official past Journeyman Smith status, even if he’s been told he should go for Master. And he’s not got any guidance beyond what the King said and a legend that sounds half dramatic bullshit. If he screws up, he's going to have a hard time forgiving himself, but if he’s somehow managed to recover from a drunken proposal and horrifying his bannermen, reforging overwrought steel ought to be small potatoes.

 

 

He hopes, anyway. Wouldn’t be the first time learning from fucking up either.

 

 

He’s prepared in the interim so he has the best chance at getting it right anyway: stockpiling charcoal and clay, choosing well cured wood and getting reliable tools. He knows how far this steel has traveled, how rare it is, and he handles the bloom reverently with gloved hands before he positions the chisel.

 

 

Funny how he’s terrified and giddily excited all at once.

 

 

This isn’t like the horrible certainty of Winterfell, hammer held ready in the midst of chaos, smoke and snow as death climbed the walls.

 

 

This he’s been preparing for his whole life; this he _knows_.

 

And if the King’s right, it's as if he was born for it.

 

 

So he’s sure when he brings his hammer down.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arya’s eyes are always bright with amusement and curiosity when Gendry stops by the forge first thing every morning before joining her for breakfast. “You’re _still_ working on… whatever it is? It’s been two months; it must be _huge_ ,” she comments, perplexed.

 

 

He grins because he can’t help it but he shakes his head as he takes the seat beside hers. “No sneaking down and peeking. If I screw it up, I don’t need you giving me shit about it too.”

 

 

One of her brows raises before she smirks. “As if anybody _but_ me can give you shit about anything here now.”

 

 

He chuckles. “Yeah, well, the North remembers way too much, if you ask me. And Ser Farring would beg to differ.”

 

 

“He likes you better than your uncle Renly, anyway.”

 

 

That surprises him. “Why would you say that?”

 

 

Arya shrugs. “You’re not as spendthrift. And you don’t shirk duty. Basically he doesn’t have to work as hard now that you’re around.”

 

 

“Ah, that’d be true for any castellan. And he had to work plenty to keep the nobles happy when I first got here,” Gendry points out wryly.

 

 

“That must have been something to see,” she says, grinning gleefully.

 

 

He grins back, shaking his head. “Least they’re used to me now. Should be a lot of them coming to the salt haul.”

 

 

“As long as the weather holds, there should be a good haul this year. They let me do some raking yesterday at the flats, did I tell you?”

 

 

“You were raking salt with those weathered old grumps? In the heat?” She complains enough about it, but when has she ever let anything stop her?

 

 

“Well, they wanted to know about Nymeria, and it was fun to hear them cuss. Stormland summer is wretched but it turns seawater into something useful, anyway, I guess.”

 

 

“Heat’s easier to bear if you’ve something to do."

 

 

“And I'll sleep when it storms, milord," she drawls like a fishwife, and he chuckles before kissing her, easy and lighthearted.

 

 

Seeing her tame a wolf as big as a horse has made her infamous around these parts, but she takes it more in stride than being the Hero of Winterfell. She didn’t like the adulation that came with that- or maybe she’s just more comfortable telling direwolf stories. He was worried the heat would put her off after seeing what passes as warm for Northerners, but she's adapted to the Stormland way easily enough: out first thing to check on the Silphium she's planted in different plots around the castle, back with nets of seafood or game for the kitchens before the sun gets too high, then writing correspondence or napping through the worst of the heat, waiting until evening to practice in the cooling courtyard with sword or staff. 

 

 

They sleep on a woven straw mat on his bedchamber floor now, to Old Min’s horror, but they both prefer the cool stone underneath to the stiflingly warm featherbed. Not as comfortable for sex, but he can still please her just fine, sometimes even multiple times now that he knows what she likes.

 

 

“All I need is you under me,” she’d assured him, laughing, and he’d almost proposed again right there.

 

 

He can't help but hope that she’s decided to stay. She’s not talked about her ship docked on the other side of Westeros for weeks, although she still gets ravens from her first mate on the regular.

 

 

Probably bullheaded not to ask, but he knows Arya and unflinching truths, and he doesn't want to put a chisel in it when things have been going smooth and easy.

 

 

The only problem with her possibly putting down roots is that maybe he should have made something else with the steel, but it’s far too late for that now. Besides, he still needs to see if he can actually manage to quench it.

 

 

He’s sure Arya will shout at him for being willing to bleed to try to make Valyrian steel, so he waits until she’s busy reading the messages the Maester delivers at breakfast before he speaks up.

 

 

“Maester Darren- can I speak to you in private later? Got a medical question.”

 

 

“Of course, my lord. I’ll be in my chambers for the rest of the morning, but I have lessons with the village children this afternoon.”

 

 

Gendry nods. “I’ll try to find you after petitions, then. Thanks.”

 

 

He just hopes there won’t be leeches this time.

 

 

He looks over to see if Arya’s noticed, but she hasn’t- whatever is in her message is making her expression look pained. He tilts his head, worried. “What’s wrong?”

 

 

She looks up in surprise, and the way she doesn’t try to hide the desperate regret in her eyes, the way she casts about, thinking hard about her words, has his heart lurching to a painful stop.

 

“…When we went over the Sunset Sea the first time, I timed it wrong. We were stuck in doldrums in the middle of the open ocean for about a week. Never heard about that sort of thing on the Narrow Sea so I wasn’t ready –none of the crew was-- and it could have killed us. The Maesters at Oldtown have finally collated wind records for the west coast. And it looks like there are trade winds that pick up-“

 

 

“You’re leaving then?" Gendry interrupts. His breathing isn’t right and his chest hurts.

 

 

She swallows and hesitates. “Gendry, I…”

 

 

The way she’d broken his heart the last time had been cold, a bloodless shock. Her being sad and sorry now?

 

 

Makes him feel like he’s being torn apart.

 

 

He stands abruptly, signaling to the housekeeper.

 

 

“Min, can you ask Ser Farring to handle today’s petitions? I'll go over his decisions later," he manages, shoving away from the table.

 

 

“My lord? Yes, milord, of course,” she replies, bewildered, but he’s already walking out of the dining hall.

 

 

“Gendry!” Arya calls after him, but he ignores her.

 

 

He can’t hear any more reasons right now. Can’t think. Can't even bear to look at her.

 

 

_Idiot. Fucking fool._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The muscles in his arms burn and his hands are starting to numb a little from the constant vibration, but he keeps that steel singing, pounding away the flaking ash, wishing that he could beat his own heart back into shape the same way. The familiarity, the repetition and gradual success in revealing purer metal has always soothed him, like channeling his temper into something solid and useful. Probably the only thing that kept him his job when he was a resentful teenager, and helpful again when trying to stay hidden under corrupt goldcloak noses.

 

 

But it’s not working this time. He’s still so furious at himself, at her, at the world, even, that his body will probably give out before his feelings do.

 

 

He’d known it. That's what burns the worst. He'd walked right into it willingly, eagerly, even. He’s always known that she's kept one eye fixed on a horizon he's never seen.

 

 

But gods, he’d been so fucking happy. He’s sure he made her happy too.

 

 

And it’s not enough. He’s seen the edgy restlessness, the drive to be doing something more even if being together felt so good.

 

 

And he knows it’s perverse, because he loves that blazing excitement and pride in her eyes when she talks about change, about the thrill of discovery; places she’s mapped.

 

 

Places he isn’t.

 

 

He sees movement out of the corner of his eye, and he shuts his eyes and shakes his head. He’s still too upset. He needs to be so exhausted that he can just fall into a corner and pass out cold, and maybe then he can handle his feelings.

 

 

“I’ve asked you not to come down here,” he grits out, flat. _Strike, strike, strike, turn_

 

 

“…I know but we need to talk and you’ve-” _Strike, strike_ “-been hiding down here for hours." _Strike, turn_ "We can't ignore this any more." _Strike, strike_

 

“...I can’t yet.” _Strike, turn_

 

 

“Why not? It’s not like you’ve lost your voice!”

 

 

“Because I know I'm going to say something stupid, and you're going to throw it back in my face again!“ he bursts out. _Fuck._

 

 

He pounds down on the steel, but he’s lost his rhythm and he exhales with frustration before lifting his hammer again.

 

 

“Oh, like you never throw stupid stuff I say back in _my_ face? _I don't care!_ I love you and we can’t-“ _Strike, strike, turn_ “Would you stop that and just look at me?!”

 

 

He knows he’s being a dick on purpose now, but he’s not the one leaving, so. _Strike, strike, turn_   “Can’t," he grunts.

 

 

“Why the hell not?!”

 

 

“ _Because_ _it fucking hurts, okay?!_ ” His cheeks are wet, and he grimaces. He hasn’t cried since his mum died. Arya fucking Stark ripping his heart out properly this time. “Gods, Arya! If I look at you, all I'll see is you walking away. _Again._ …Even when I think I’ve been making you happy, when you tell me I’m your mate or a good lord for Storm's End! I’m never actually good enough for you, am I, princess?!”

 

 

“ _That’s not true!_ ” She sounds like she's crying now too. Great. Now they’re both raw and overwrought. “The problem is _me!_ _It’s always been me._ It’s why I can’t stay here. With the stupid power games and my family on thrones and so much at stake _all the time._ You’re a Lord now instead of some nameless smith that might have gone ignored. But when I'm over the sea, nobody cares about Great Houses or that I’m as monstrous a killer as the dead queens. I can just be me."

 

 

That stops him short. “You _saved_ Winterfell.”

 

 

When he turns abruptly to look at her, she looks so much like that scared, vulnerable girl he used to know that he sets down his hammer and shoves the half-finished saw back in the forge. “You’re a hero,” he insists.

 

 

She shakes her head miserably. “...Lord Beric finally died to save my life that night- did you know that? The Red Woman was there too, reminding me about my dark destiny before she died too. Everything lined up just so I could become No One enough to kill the Night King. _I felt nothing after, Gendry_. I wasn’t…right anymore. I’d spilled too much blood. And I knew it. I knew it right after we slept together.”

 

Her hands are fists at her sides, and she looks lost in memory. “In Braavos, the Faceless Men taught me about people’s bodies- where to cut to kill them fastest, which parts shut down with different poisons, how to aim a blade through a ribcage or a skull. They taught me to play the game of faces, to get used to fighting in the darkness; use all my senses to survive. And they finally taught me to change faces, become somebody else.”

 

“They shouldn’t have. I should have died every time I failed to prove I was truly No One. But the Red God needed me, needed me to know these things and get back to Winterfell. But it didn’t need me after. Sandor told me to live the last time I saw him… and after seeking death for so long _I had no idea_ _how_.”

 

Tears spill down her cheeks again but she continues.

 

“Being Faceless was supposed to mean I could decide who I wanted to be, but everybody I loved still loved Arya. You proposed, Jon asked me to come North with him… and I didn’t know how to be her anymore. …So I dropped my faces into the ocean like they’d first told me to do with Arya Stark. And I started over. You know girls can be scholars on the other side? And shopowners and guildmasters? Nobody even blinked when I said I was Captain of my ship. _It was so freeing._ But everybody I loved was still in Westeros. So I raised anchor and sailed back to see if I still had a home here.”

 

 

Gendry cups his hand over hers automatically when she touches her hand to his chest. His mind is spinning, both their cheeks are wet and he’s sure he’s never been this emotionally churned up in his life.

 

 

But he knows she’s just told him everything. And that even though he just wants to comfort her, he has to be honest about everything back.

 

 

"…I don’t understand all of that- yet. I want to. But here's what I know, Arya. I know you’re not the only killer in this room, and I know you left the Frey children and women alive, which is more than I can say for Cersei and Daenerys, so you have to stop with that monster shit. And I know that you were at the Red Wedding, because the Hound told me when he was trying to get me to stay away from you in Winterfell. And what you saw? Would have fucked me up too. So I get why you went to Braavos to be like Jaqen H’ghar. And I know you’re more _you_ now than you were when you were at Winterfell. So I’m glad you sailed off and figured out how to be you again- even if you had to break my heart to do it.”

 

 

She hiccups with relief and nods and he cups his hand under her chin, shaking his head and grimacing. “See, there’s more. And I don’t know if this is your Red God pushing us around, or your all-seeing brother or just some fucked up fate. But I know that I’ve got steel out of legend ready to quench _right now_ and that I’m a smith with Baratheon blood. I know I love and trust you more than anybody. And now... I know you know how to cut into people’s bodies.”

 

 

He takes a deep breath. “So can you cut _me_ somehow so I can get enough blood to quench the steel, but still be able to work it after?”

 

 

It’s rare, surprising Arya, but she reels back in horrified betrayal, her voice so low he can barely hear what she says. “… _You want me to_ _let your blood_?”

 

 

He scrapes a hand through his hair, frustrated. Then he swallows and just out and says it, pointing at the forge. “I’ve folded that steel you brought back _for weeks_. Given it the keenest edge I can. It’s the best work I've ever done, and I know it. But making it Valyrian steel requires blood magic in the quench-” Her eyes widen with shock, but he continues, “-and your brother said that the King’s blood in me will do the trick.”

 

 

She considers for a long, agonizing moment before she speaks.

 

 

“It’ll have to be a vein. And if you want use of your arms right after, the easiest one’s in your neck," she says reluctantly.

 

 

“Okay. I’m ready.” He walks over to the bench and straddles it, gesturing at the clean, wet rag, bowl, dagger and bandages and ointment set on the battered table next to it.

 

 

“You’ve done something like this before,” she says faintly.

 

 

Gendry shrugs. “Didn’t need as much in the dragonglass.”

 

 

Her eyes widen and she gives him a horrified look. “That’s how you made all those daggers at Winterfell? And the axes?”

 

 

He shrugs. “Just a few drops in the molds. Mostly nicked my arm or thumb.” He smiles grimly. “No leeches, anyway.”

 

 

“I can’t believe Jon let you do that.”

 

 

“Jon didn’t know. Really not a big deal- the dragonglass was shattering, and I’d seen the Red Woman use my blood for magic so I cut my finger over one of the molds just to see if anything changed. Baratheons are supposed to be strong. Descended from Gods even, if you believe the history.”

 

 

She swipes at her cheeks.

 

 

“I don't want to. …But you're asking.”

 

 

“…I am.”

 

 

She nods, eyes shadowed, and seats herself in front of him on the bench before she seems to steel herself.

 

 

It’s like Arya disappears into that blank face she used to wear so much: purposeful- merciless. Even her voice is cold. “Hold on to the bench," she commands.

 

 

Gendry sits carefully still while she tilts her head, studying the skin on his neck and probing carefully with her fingers. Then she takes the cloth and wipes down his neck and her own dagger.

 

 

There’s no warning and no hesitation: she spins her dagger from her left hand to her right and then pierces the blade into his neck in one smooth motion.

 

 

 _Fuck._ He makes an involuntary sound and flinches even though part of him registers that it should probably hurt more than it does- there’s a really fine edge on her blade. Smart of her to tell him to grab hold of the bench too or he might have grabbed for his neck reflexively.

 

 

She gives him a stricken look, and he meets her eyes, grateful she looks like herself again.

 

 

"Idiot,” she whispers, and he can tell she’s close to crying again. But she brings the bowl up against his neck and he can smell and hear the dribble of his blood going in when she pulls out the dagger.

 

 

He pants, relieved and yet rather alarmed that it doesn’t hurt more. “Sorry.”

 

 

She shakes her head and glares. “You know some tribes in Asshai do this with cattle? They let blood from the neck and drink it- it’s supposed to be sacred. Never in my life did I think I would be doing the same thing to my own dumb, stubborn bull.”

 

 

“Stag,” he corrects, and she rolls her eyes and smiles a little, and he knows she’s going to be okay.

 

 

“Tell me if you’re getting light-headed. How much do you need?” she asks.

 

 

“No idea. As much as you can get safely. Nobody should have to die for a blade, even a Valyrian steel one. Azor Ahai was one crazy bastard.”

 

 

She gives him a questioning look before she quirks a brow and picks up the bandage. “Well, I’m going to stop now then, since this bowl’s almost full. Press this down on the wound while I dump this in the brine?”

 

 

Gendry looks at the bowl in her hands –-it almost looks like a bowl full of Dornish wine-- and nods, obeying.

 

 

Arya comes back immediately after, sitting between his legs so she can apply the herbal smelling ointment before carefully wrapping the bandage around his neck and applying pressure again.

 

 

It’s oddly intimate, and he pulls her close and she sighs raggedly and drops her head on his shoulder, one hand still pressed firmly to the bandage on his neck.

 

 

“Thank you. I know that was a lot to ask. I was going to ask Maester Darren. I think it was supposed to be you all along, though,” he admits.

 

 

He can feel her frown. “He might have cut a nerve or gone too deep. I wouldn’t have. But I still think the Red God is an asshole.”

 

 

He huffs a laugh, and he rests his head on hers. “You sound like the Hound.”

 

 

She sounds smug. “Thanks.”

 

 

He starts to shake with laughter. “That’s not a compliment!”

 

 

“That’s what you think,” she says, and he can feel her smile.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He doesn’t know how long they sit there, but he knows he feels better holding her quietly like this, as if they've just survived a storm.

 

 

Maybe they have.

 

 

“We all right then?” he ventures.

 

 

“You mean the bleeding or the fighting?”

 

 

He smiles wryly. “Both?”

 

 

She inspects the bandage. “Bleeding’s stopped but I think we still need to decide on the other.”

 

 

He can’t help it- his heart almost skips a beat at the thought of that blade waiting in the forge. “Can I try quenching the steel first? Should only take a minute.”

 

 

She scoffs and quirks a brow. “Well, I didn’t stab you for nothing.”

 

 

He’s careful to go slow and easy- he’s pushed himself harder today than he would have if he’d known he would get to try this. But he knows this forge, the tongs, even the angle of the brine bucket.

 

 

And this blade he’s worked on for so long.

 

 

There’s the expected hiss of steam when he dips it in the brine, but it catches on fire when he lifts it out, which surprises him so much he almost drops it.

  

 

“Is that supposed to happen?” Arya asks, fascinated.

 

 

Gendry grins like a fool. “First time I've ever seen it. And I’ve forged a lot of steel.”

 

 

He dips it back into the brine, which extinguishes the flames, and he can’t stop the beaming smile when he lifts it back out and gives it an experimental swing.

 

 

"Would you look at that?”

 

 

Fine waves gleam like flowing water across the blade, and it’s light as a feather.

 

 

He almost can’t believe it.

 

 

“Oh, Gendry. It’s _beautiful_.”

 

 

“I really did it. Bran said I would but Gods, Arya, _Valyrian steel_ ,” he chokes. 

 

 

“I'm so proud of you- it's truly amazing. ...Why a spear head though?”

 

 

He grins at her, heart still pounding with elation. He loves that she can tell what it is, even unfinished and unmounted. “Well, you told me what you wished once. And I’ve wanted to make you a better one ever since you came back. There’s lots of good, cured Stormland wood over in the corner for you to choose a staff from, and I’m going to do wolf detailing ‘round the anchor and have it twist apart like your first. Only had enough steel from that ore to make one blade though. So here’s the deal:”

 

 

He carefully sets the blade down before he reaches out to trace his thumb wistfully over the fine line of her cheekbone, thinking hard before he continues. “You have to go back to get more Silphium for Westeros. I know how important that is. And if your Nymeria comes back to her mate here in the Stormlands every year, I can wait the same way. I’ll be true, even if you sail all the way around Essos before you come back. _Just come back._ And if you bring me some more sand, I can make the other blade for your staff.”

 

 

Her eyes fill with tears and she smiles tremulously before she pulls him close for a kiss, and it's so loving and tender that Gendry thinks he can feel all the cracks in his heart seal up again. But she pulls away slowly and he hesitates when he sees the anxious look on her face again.

 

 

“Can I tell you what I really wish? Even though it's selfish,” she fists a hand in the dirty linen shirt he wears to smith before she hesitantly looks him in the eye again.

 

 

“The same trade winds that will make it easier to cross the Sunset Sea are the ones that create Storm season every autumn here. They blow all the way across both seas in the same direction. And I know you like to smith instead of sleeping when it storms-- but what if you sail with me instead? You can get the sand yourself then. I'm sure you know better what good ore sand is, and how much you’ll need. I just shoveled some in a sack once I found it.”

 

 

His mouth falls open, mind blank with astonishment, and her eyes widen and she desperately starts to talk faster. “I know it’s not fair to Ser Farring, but he held Storm’s End for years, and he won't have to do much in Storm season anyway. We should make much better time now that we know where to head and when. And I know that there's no guarantee we're coming back, and that you’re the only Baratheon left, but Ser Davos is sailing with us too, with three brand new vessels from the Crown's new fleet, so it's much more likely. And-”

 

 

He interrupts the torrent of words with a kiss, hard, certain.

 

 

“…I don’t know why you think I would ever say no,” he declares, cradling her head close. Gods, how he loves her. Loves the look of joyous relief on her face.

 

 

He laughs when she insults him in the next breath.

 

 

"Well, you’ve done it before, you idiot! And it’s not an easy passage. We’re going to fight when we’re stuck in a tiny cabin for weeks, with scummy water and the same dried meat and fish. The people here are lovely, and they adore you. You have good food and a featherbed and your own forge-”

 

 

Gendry shakes his head. “I love it here, too. These are good people; I'm grateful to have the Baratheon name. But it’s still not worth anything without you.”

 

 

She gives him a withering look, but she’s smiling. “You were drunk when you said that.”

 

 

“Still meant it.” He pauses, thinking. “Well, maybe not the lady bit.”

 

 

Arya nods seriously, smiling, her eyes bright and hopeful and sure. “Well then, Gendry Baratheon. I’m never going to promise to obey you. But if you promise to be my husband, I can promise my home will always be here.” She puts her hand over his heart, and brings his hand up to the center of her chest. “And that this will be yours, as long as I live.”

 

 

He smiles back. His cheeks are wet again, but he doesn't care. “I always wanted a family.”

 

 

Her laugh comes out more like a sob. But he's certain when he kisses her that they’ve managed to make things right at last.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I wrote this because I felt like they cut Arya’s arc off at the ¾ mark, and it kept nagging me with its lack of resolution. If her character arc’s rock bottom was slicing Walder Frey's throat with psychopathic glee, the final beat to me had to be _the opposite_ , not what we actually got. And it could have been Jon, I admit, but slicing into Gendry worked perfect for his arc too, so um, sorrynotsorry. (That is how my foul little mind works.)
> 
> I wanted a real arc for Gendry too, and what can I say, I love symbolism, metaphors and twisting prophecies. And with Bran being the living repository of memory, it seemed logical to me that things that had been lost could once again be found, especially since in the books Tobho Mott made Oathbreaker and Widow's Wail from Ice for the Lannisters, and it's apparent in 8x2 that Gendry can recognize Valyrian steel at a glance. 
> 
> The autumn storm season in the Stormlands is part of GRRM’s worldbuilding canon too, so I am only _mostly_ making sh*t up for this fic. :D
> 
> Just the epilogue left! Thanks for all your support through this!


	6. Polish (and Finish)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because their stories aren't over yet.

_Dear Sansa,_

_No, I don’t think it’s a crazy decision at all. In fact, I think it’s diplomatic to marry in neither Storm’s End nor Winterfell. Besides, I want Jon to escort me, and we both know why he can’t leave the far North._

_As for the cloak and dress: I'd be grateful for whatever you choose. I know they'll be beautiful and Northern and far better for being under your needle than mine. I look forward to being together with you all again soon._

_Your loving sister,_

_Arya Stark_

 

 

* * *

 

 

To Lord Gendry Baratheon,

 

It would be my honor and pleasure to be there, lad. As for the politics, His Grace believes his sister is wise to choose “neither”, and I must concur. He suggests a bride price of ice might serve to smooth relations with The Queen in the North. Sounds like maybe an odd Northern custom, so best ask your betrothed?

 

Yours faithfully,

 

Ser Davos Seaworth

Master of Ships to His Majesty King Brandon Stark of the Six Kingdoms

 

 

* * *

 

My dearest Arya,

 

You can’t imagine my delight to hear such happy news from you. It would be my greatest honor to escort you before the godswood, and we will travel south for Castle Black immediately. I suppose I should have known when you asked after my blacksmith that you knew him before Winterfell, but for the life of me, I still can’t figure out how? Regardless, my warmest congratulations to you and Lord Gendry Baratheon. I can’t wait to see you both soon- and I expect to hear the full tale of it.

 

All my love,

 

Jon

 

 

 

* * *

 

_Dear Bran,_

_I was wrong to think Sansa the smartest of us. Thank you for everything, and thanks especially for getting my message to Jon. I don’t think I’ve ever received a reply with such joy._

_The tempering will take at least another month. Shall we all head up the Kingsroad together after that?_

_Your loving sister,_

_Arya Stark_

 

* * *

Ser Farring,

 

Hope you and Storm’s End are fareing well. At the Crossroads now and we should be home by mid-winter if roads stay good. Just hired a baker. He’ll need a place to stay for himself and his wife so please get it ready.

 

Thanks,

 

Smithlord Gendry Baratheon

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

(Excerpt from  _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of Westeros_ written by Grand Maester Samwell Tarly.)

**HOUSE ARYOS BARATHEON**

JANNA ARYOS BARATHEON, first of her name, second Smithlord of Storm’s End, born to Smithlord GENDRY BARATHEON and Princess ARYA STARK at Storm’s End in the 312th year after Aegon's Landing. Black of hair, blue of eye, strong of bone and sinew. Wed to DAEMON of the house NYMEROS MARTELL in the Godswood at Storm's End.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the style change might be a bit jarring, but I really needed the final piece to come from [a book](https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/The_Lineages_and_Histories_of_the_Great_Houses_of_the_Seven_Kingdoms) like the one that gave Ned his hoshit realization in 1x06, so epistolary it was. (After all, lineage listings never end; they just get added to…) 
> 
> I figured that Arya had asked Jon about Gendry because she knows about their trip North of the Wall in 8x02. Forever pressed that there is no good-brother showdown in canon, but hey, it’s why we fic right?
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with me to the end of this! Your kudos and comments have meant the world to me! <3


End file.
